Stray
by Thranx
Summary: Severus Snape inadvertently gains a pet he doesn’t want, but he may know someone who does need it. If even Snape learns to share, can Harry learn to heal?


**[[A/N:** This is a bit different from my usual stories. There is no blood, death, gore, mutilation and general misery. It is pretty light-hearted, having only depression and the occasionally suicidal thought. If such things disturb you, go away.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of the Harry Potter world, but I occasionally like to peek in on their universe.

**Rating:** PG-13, for occasional swearing and depression

**Summary:** Severus Snape inadvertently gains a pet he doesn't want, but he may know someone who does need it. This is a story focusing not on plot, but on the process of healing aided by the companionship of animals.

It's downright cheery by my standards.

**Stray**

Part I****

by **Thranx**

Contrary to popular belief, Severus Snape did not live at Hogwarts year round. Staying over the Winter Break was required of all four Heads of House, but not even the Headmaster stayed in the castle throughout the entire summer. One of Severus' favorite places, in fact, was his small summer cottage at the very end of Clover Lane, where he could relax and catch up on the issues of Potions Today he had only skimmed through during the school year. He liked nothing better than to stretch out in his arm chair in front of the bay window that looked across the street into the woods.

His cottage was as different from the dungeons of Hogwarts as day was from night. The house itself was, even as Severus would grudgingly admit, cute. It had two bedrooms, one of which he had turned into a study/library, a small kitchen with an icebox and two burner stove, a living room just large enough for a bookcase, couch, tea table, and several chairs, and a cellar he used as a mini potions factory. The walls inside and out were all white, and the windows and doors in front were decorated with Victorian style lattice-work. Both the front door and mailbox by the gravel road (for this was originally a Muggle house) were bright red. The entire house was surrounded by a rather wild looking garden which was enclosed by a weather-stained white picket fence.

Even though he lived in a Muggle neighborhood, Severus found his house ideally located. It was at the very end of twisting, ultimately dead end road, so he rarely had to deal with traffic or annoying people stopping to ask if they were lost and if you could give them directions. The closest house was about half a block away – within shouting distance but out of sight thanks to a sharp turn in the road. Occasionally a Muggle child or two would bicycle to the end of the road and then turn around, but his closest neighbor (thank Merlin) was a writer who not only had no children, but was content live silently without interfering in her neighbor's affairs.

Beyond his fence were lush woods. This was good when he wanted to go hunted for fresh potion ingredients (although he'd prefer to work in the seclusion and peace of his lab than go out into the fields); but it was bad because it brought a lot of wildlife to his doorstep. His garden had a constant gnome infestation, and since he was gone most of the year it seemed pointless to kick the creatures out over the summer when they'd surely come slinking right back as soon as he was gone. There was also a pixie colony centered in an old sprawling oak on a hill just a stone's throw away from his fence. But after attacking him one summer, he had hexed half the swarm so badly that they still shied away at the sight of him.

Insects and animals of all kinds found their way into Severus' house. Several times he found a snake curled up in the broom cupboard, giving him such a fright that his hands shook for hours afterwards (the association that snakes had in his mind was enough to give him nightmares); and a mouse or two turned up under the kitchen sink from time to time. Once he even cornered a skunk that had found its way into his bathroom. It was thanks to quick wand-work in stupifying the little bugger that he saved his house from becoming a giant dungbomb.

The most numerous of his problems, however, were strays.

He didn't know how, but for some reason half the stray cats that were either lost or abandoned in the nearby suburb seemed to make their way to Clover Lane. A month after he had first moved here in 1981 he found his first stray cat – or, more likely, it found him.

One day in midsummer he had gone outside to weed the garden (he still kept it up in those days), where he suddenly heard a mewing coming from the trees beyond his garden fence. He wondered briefly whose cat it was before continuing his chores. By lunchtime the mewling still hadn't stopped. He tried to eat his lunch – an egg salad sandwich – but the sounds wouldn't stop. Finally he stepped over the low fence and went in search of the source, with vague preparations to hex it.

But a strange thing happened. He kept on coming closer and closer to the sound and then it would suddenly become fainter. There was no rustling in the bushes around him, but the cat must have moved when it saw Severus. He followed it again and again, and the same thing happened. It was starting to unnerve him. After loosing the sound for the fifth time he finally deduced that it must be coming from a certain tight clump of bushes and trees. He searched through them for what seemed like an hour before he gave up. It took him twenty minutes to pull all the burs and leaves out of his socks.

Early the next morning he went outside and walked to the back of his garden where he had first noticed the sounds. Today it was silent outside. But as soon as he approached the same clump of bushes the mewling started up again, more insistent than ever. This time he crouched down next to the bushes and took a piece of ham from his pocket.

"Here, kitty-kitty," he beckoned softly. "Where are you, you annoying little sack of fur?" He was unwilling to make a repeat of yesterday, but he was too stubborn to admit defeat. Letting a puny cat get the better of him, after all he had done and been through in this last war? No, sir. This time he would find the cat first, and wade through the thorny bushes after he had stupified it. But he scanned every inch without finding a piece of fur. Was it stuck in a hole? It surely couldn't be invisible?

Then, slowly, he craned his head upwards…and there it was, clinging to a scraggly branch halfway up the maple! It looked even more pathetic than it sounded. It was only a year old, he supposed. Young anyway, he could tell from this far away. It was much too thin and had a look about it so desperate he was tempted to laugh out loud.

"What are you looking at me for, vermin?" he called to it. The kitten continued mewling forcefully. It inched a little further down the branch. "Do I look like an animal rescue crew? You were the dunderhead that climbed up there in the first place. Don't expect me to climb up there and get you."

He turned away and walked back to the house, but half an hour later found him doing just that. He magically extended a ladder he found in the broom closet so that it would reach up to ten feet. But as soon as he managed to climb the ladder and reach the branch, the damn thing wouldn't move.

"Come here, little vermin. Come here, kitty-_kitty_!" he snarled, reaching out his arm as far as it would go. The kitten inched forward just enough to smell his outstretched fingers, but then backed up a couple inches. "Cat!" he barked. "Am I, or am I not the one doing _you_ a favor here?"

He reached in his pocket and laid out a piece of ham. The kitten inched forward, its rear held high as it scrunched its shoulders low, and slurped it up. Severus put another piece closer towards the trunk and another one closer yet. The kitten inched forward even more. He put two more small pieces leading forward and left the third in his outstretched hand.

When the kitten leaned its white, pug-nosed face into the palm of his hand he quickly scruffed it. It yowled and spit, but he held tightly and eventually the kitten went limp and continued on its business of looking pathetic. "Not so tough after all, are you?" he mocked.

But what did he do with the kitten now? He needed hands to climb back down but he didn't want to risk dropping it. Finally, he picked it up, still by the scruff, and shoved it between his undershirt and jacket. He felt tiny pinpricks on his stomach as the kitten's claws sank through his undershirt, but instead of trying to squirm away it seemed to want to cling closer, as if for warmth. "I'm not your mother," he informed the shivering bundle curled in a ball under his jacket, but it paid him no heed.

He climbed down one-handed. Holding on to the ladder with one hand, he used his other hand to support the furry lump growling at his stomach. He made it down to the ground without incident and was even in sight of the fence again when the kitten suddenly decided it didn't want to be rescued anymore. It began squirming and flailing; he tried to hold it tighter but the bastard _bit_ him. He dropped it, and it landed on its feet on the grass and shot off into the nearest bush.

Damn! This was what he got for trying to be nice. All he had tried to do was help a small defenseless starving animal, and what did he get in return? A shredded stomach.

"Shit," he muttered as he flipped up the bottom of his undershirt to look at the numerous scratches across his abdomen. He'd have to clean them thoroughly, or risk their becoming infected. But first he had to take care of the damn cat.

He found it easily. It hadn't gone far – it was crouched in the shade of nearby tree, watching Severus warily. He took a step towards it and it backed up farther. He took a step back and it appeared to relax.

He sighed. He had just survived a war where both sides had reason to kill him, and now a stray kitten was going to defeat him? He didn't think so. They would see just who could be more stubborn. He dimly recalled advice from Professor McGonagall – well, Minerva, now that he was on the faculty too – when involved in an transfiguring incident his fifth year. "Never get in a fight with a cat," she had instructed. "Their capacity for stubbornness could match your own, Snape." That was right after taking twenty points from Slytherin.

He reached in his pocket and tore the remaining ham into shreds. He walked casually back towards his house, dropping tidbits every few steps across the back yard and up to the back door. He turned around once to find the kitten following at a distance. Leaving the back door propped open, he went inside and retrieved two bowls from the cupboard. He filled one with water another with a can of chicken-noodle coup. He wasn't sure exactly what cats ate, but he figured if the creature were starving it better damn well be grateful for whatever he choose to give it. He put both bowls right inside the back door and made himself some toast. With only coffee for breakfast hours ago, he was famished.

He turned to find a small white head looking through the doorway. "Can I help you?" he asked it. It sat down carefully and stared at him. "Go on then." It still didn't move. He took a bite of toast and watched it back. Finally, it took a tentative step towards the bowls and began to move its head up and down, sniffing the air. "I didn't poison it," he told it. "Yet. But I may consider doing so if you continue to annoy me."

It finally started on the soup. He couldn't help a small grin that spread across his face as his watched its tongue delicately lap up the liquid. It dined as if it were royalty, not a bedraggled stray. He took his toast and went into the living room. He sat on the small couch in front of the mantelpiece and read a book on defensive jinxes while finishing his food. After a while he heard a small scratching sound. He looked down to find the kitten in the process of shredding the rug.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. The kitten sat still and stared at him. "Go away," he said, but he patted the space beside him all the same. When it didn't move he went back to his book. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched it come closer and sniff his shoe. Then it considered the couch a while more before it jumped and landed lightly beside him. After rubbing the side of its face on the back of the couch and turning around several times exploring the cushion beneath it, it curled into a ball six inches from Severus' knee.

That was the first stray. It seemed so long ago now. He had been only twenty-one then, barely out of Hogwarts and the youngest professor by fifteen years. The white and grey tabby kitten had become his first pet. He had named it Arsenius and it had lived seven adventurous years before dying unexpectedly in its sleep one wintery morning. But plenty had followed Arsenius. There was Demetritus and Hellebore and Coppelia, a few more bizarre ones, including a devious half-Kneazle he had named Crookshanks, and later some of his favorites: the calico Jameson, the midnight black Salazaar, and a beautiful Persian named Circe. He took in so many over the years that he couldn't even estimate the number. He gave them to friends, neighbors, others to Muggle animal shelters, and to Muggle and Wizard pet stores alike. Some of them, like the fat three-legged Chiara, and the old wheezy Thimbleton, didn't make it. Every so often he might borrow claws or fur for potions ingredients, but mainly he buried them beside a patch of wildflowers along the fence.

At any one time, however, he had at least four or five cats climbing through the cat door and dropping both leaves and lizard guts on his counter. If he couldn't find homes for them by the end of summer, he took them with him to Hogwarts. Some of them stayed in his personal quarters, content to sunbathe on a window ledge all day. Others would disappear at the beginning of the year and show up at the beginning of summer when it was time to go home as if they had never been gone. So many students let their cats roam freely that no one noticed if a couple more were added to the throng. Severus had even seen a couple lonely students adopt his cats, especially in his own house, like Millicent Bullstrode – they would take the furballs home for the holidays and he wouldn't see them very often after that.

Severus was what Albus would call a "cat person." He was pleased to have cats around all the time. The gnome infestation decreased dramatically, and the pixies began to leave to visit relatives more and more often. Any wildlife he found in his house after that was usually deceased. He liked how cats could take care of themselves. They used a litter box by instinct, cleaned themselves, could catch a lot of their own food, and didn't need much more than a patch of sunlight to sprawl in and an occasional scratch behind the ear. All in all, he found he enjoyed their quirky company, even if he did sometimes have to clean up a hairball or two.

But years and years of adopting and caring for cats hadn't prepared him for this latest development. Because one day at the beginning of the summer of 1996, almost fifteen years after finding Arsenius in a maple tree, he found yet another animal in his backyard, but this time it wasn't a cat – it was a dog.


End file.
